


New Perspective

by hollowbirds (torturousthings)



Series: Written About You [12]
Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M, So yes, first person pov spencer, it's based on an actual v&v era acoustic set on youtube, new perspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-17 23:10:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11278704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torturousthings/pseuds/hollowbirds
Summary: "Too bad, guys, I want to say. This line wasn’t for you. It’s for my childhood best friend from my current best friend. God knows how in love they used to be."





	New Perspective

**Author's Note:**

> this little fic is based on [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PENK3uyEPeQ) acoustic session! make sure you check it out sometime :)

“Thanks,” Brendon laughs and says to someone who shouted something that I didn’t catch, “so this song’s called New Perspective, it goes like this.” 

 

I place the egg I used for Nine on the ledge behind me. I won’t be needing it for this one. Brendon runs a hand through his damp hair and launches into the song, his hands still not tired even though he’s just played guitar by himself for three songs already. I can tell he’s been building up endurance for guitar even though he really doesn’t have to; we have Ian now, but he seems to be trying to convince himself that he doesn’t need a guitarist. Or that he doesn’t need Ryan in particular, I’m not sure.  

Their breakup was a fucking mess. Ryan vanished God knows where when we got back from tour and Brendon refused to step out of his bedroom for a week straight. When he finally did, he had three songs, a heart full of resentment and two less bandmates. No one really knows what happened in Cape Town; Brendon pretends everything’s fine and asking Ryan isn’t really an option anymore, so I try not to bother too much. Maybe one day he’ll tell me. 

I don’t really need to focus on what my hands are doing because all I’m handling today is the tambourine, which is falling apart beneath my fingers. This is the last song anyway. Maybe I’ll give the broken bits to one of the fans that’s standing eagerly behind the railing barely a metre away from us, eyes shining. I know I can make someone’s day with a broken piece of brass, just because Spencer Smith has touched it. They deify us, but we’re so human. There’s nothing divine about how my hands shake on bad days or about Brendon’s denial of what is undeniably true, nothing holy about the sweat and tears and blood we put into every song. I can feel how tense he is right now, even though he’s not letting it show. He hides it so well nowadays, built up a wall between him and the fans. Between him and the world, really. I wonder which side I’m on. 

The photographers don’t stop. Some of them have the courtesy of not using their flashes, but most treat us like we’re objects they need to get the best angle of. I guess we are. We’re products, sold at the best price. We’re shells of people. 

He does the "ooh"s and I can hear the slight strain in his voice. He’s been over-practicing that, too. His hair falls into his eyes and his head is bent over the guitar slightly, mouth inches from the mic. He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t need to; we’ve played so many shows and sets together that we adapt to each other’s movements, know instinctively when’s something’s not right. And something’s not right. 

He wrote this particular song because he was asked to and yet he managed to slip some references to Ryan in nonetheless. This song isn’t sad, isn’t angry. It’s cold indifference, as if to tell the world, to tell Ry that he doesn’t care anymore. It’s fucking provocative as well. I stop the tambourine as Brendon plays the hook and sings the line, that line that shocked the director of the movie and delighted so many fangirls. Who wouldn’t want to hear Brendon Urie ask for a fucking blowjob? I try not to think of how many people in the audience are turned on right now. Maybe that pink-haired girl in the second row. Too bad, guys, I want to say. This line wasn’t for you. It’s for my childhood best friend from my current best friend. God knows how in love they used to be. 

It’s one thing to go through a shitty breakup yourself, but it’s somehow worse to see someone that’s so dear to your heart crumble away slowly, pretending everything’s fine. He pretends all the time, but it’s getting tough for me to ignore it. I tried, because he asked me to. Said it’d be easier for him to move on. Bullshit. He hasn’t moved on at all. 

Brendon launches into the chorus, something about wanting to see life differently. I’ve never paid much attention to the lyrics of this song, apart from the Ryan references. Those I catch too easily; someone who’s hurting is so much easier to read. About halfway through, a cardboard sign that appeared in the crowd catches my attention. People make cardboard signs all the time, but I don’t get to see them that often since I’m mostly behind my drums. This one says “I’M HERE BECAUSE I LOVE YOUR FACES” It’s a clumsy reference to the song, that I know, and it makes me laugh. Brendon sees it as well and grins, but keeps singing. 

I don’t know if he realises just how talented he is. Ryan was good, but Brendon is a whole new level. Brendon is passion and raw talent and a thirst for perfection all mixed in one, a hurricane packed into a person. We’ve made it this far but I’m not sure whether he knows everyone thinks he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. 

I remember the wild excitement in his eyes the night we played our very first show together, the adrenaline making him look older than he was, hair pasted to his forehead. That was the night he’d realised this is what he wanted to do. The spotlights, the fans, the sweat. Onstage was where he belonged, and we had all seen that. He knew that. Ryan was his second half. Pictures of them laughing and throwing words at each other onstage flash before my eyes and I try to keep the tambourine regular. He wouldn’t want me to be thinking about it, but it’s tough when we’re playing one of our first acoustic sessions without the two other guys. I look at him. 

More hair has fallen in front of his forehead, and somehow he pulls it off. I’d look like a 17 year-old trying to look edgy in 2005 if I did that. Oh, wait. 

My point is, he looks good. There’s no denying it; and the press doesn’t hold back on calling him sexy or more questionable adjectives. I don’t mind; it’s true, and we do need to sell our band in some way. There’s only the two of us now, though Dallon does help out sometimes. Dallon’s a good guy. I’m still not sure whether the act he and Brendon pull onstage are to diss Ryan or not, though that line Brendon sings in a stupid voice definitely is. I get it. He’s hurt. It does make me uncomfortable each time he does it, though, like I’m betraying Ryan’s trust. I guess it’s too late to backtrack now. 

And with that thought, Brendon finishes the song on a chord and looks at me, sweaty, smiling. He lets out a short laugh. 

“Yeah, man,” I say, so he knows I thought it was good. I did, even if I zoned out for about half of it. He’s always good. 

 

“Cool,” he answers, half for me, half for the fans. The smile plastered on his face isn’t exactly fake, but it’s definitely not the most genuine I’ve ever seen. He’s not happy. He misses him. So do I. I miss them, as a couple. Never out, but never really hiding either. 

 

I look down at my tambourine, which is literally falling apart now, and I inform the crowd as they clap for us. 

 

One down, a whole fucking lot to go. 


End file.
